For many years, the words ‘See you at Christmas’, left my mouth on many occasions. Round my grandfather’s oblong table; aunts, uncles, cousins and family friends pulled crackers, told jokes, and got silly on sherry. The goose-greased turkey would be fossilised by the end of the night. But once I turned thirteen, I didn’t find much opportunity to say it anymore. By fifteen I had stopped altogether. Now, the Christmas cards I buy come in small packs. The turkey is much smaller: now coated in oil. Last Christmas, mother told me a joke, and I sobbed into my trifle.
In the kitchen I melt the last of the sealing wax. Mother washes the dishes; the nice ones with the gold trimming.
“I should start on the prep soon.”
I nod, pouring the molten green into a rough circle. You must stamp quickly, otherwise it will crust up and you’ll have to begin again. As mother prepares Christmas lunch (to be cooked on the day), I head out to post the neighbour’s cards. Stepping out, I notice Rodram from three doors down.
“You all ready for tomorrow?”
“Yes, Rodram. How about yourself?”
“Oh, you know…plodding along.”
He waves as he goes back inside.
“Have a good one!”
After posting the cards I catch the bus to the disused funeral home. Hovering by the front door and nursing a cigarette is Soulis. He wears overalls, pike boots, and a red cap.
“What took you so long? I’ve been chewing my nails off here!”
“Calm down, Soulis. I live with my mother, remember? It’s meant to be a surprise.”
As we open the doors, we are hit with the unsettling stench of patchouli and formaldehyde.
“Alright, let’s be quick.”
We undress.
“Aren’t you always,” I say.
Soulis treats these moments like minor miracles. I moan and groan to tide him over and send him over the edge. For myself, I find comfort in the cross on the wall. Can you imagine if it flipped upside down?
“I’m a lucky man.”
Post-coitus, he adjusts his cap and goes to light up again. He offers me one, which I decline.
“Smoking is immoral.”
He laughs like Santa Claus: a great heaving guffaw that could raise the dead.
“I need three by the time mother starts on lunch, ok?”
“You have my word.”
When I return home, mother is sitting on the stairs.
“Where have you been?”
I hang my coat on the hook.
“I went to see a friend. She called me when I was posting the cards.”
“And you didn’t think to call me?”
She follows me into the kitchen where I boil the kettle.
“There wasn’t time. I’m sorry, ok?”
With a grunt, she retrieves a stocking from the fireplace.
“You can open this tonight,” she says, grabbing the milk from the fridge.
I have had a Christmas stocking every year since I was old enough to appreciate it. At the very bottom is a piece of fruit. What was once a satsuma has now become a pink dragonfruit. My refined tastes have proven problematic with mother’s finances, though I don’t ask for anything.
We take our tea to the sofa. For the next hour I read my book while she relishes in one of those cheesy Christmas films that cost pennies to make. I think of my great surprise. Soulis will bring the corpses in the early hours. If this is the case, we will need to be stealthy.
“Mother, I have a surprise for you,” I say, lifting up my head.
She pauses the TV.
“Oh? When do I get it?”
“Tomorrow. But you can’t come down in the morning. I will come and get you.”
She claps her hands and rubs them together.
“I’m all excited!”
#
It’s ten o’clock by the time she goes to bed. There’s not enough time for me to sleep and prepare, so I ply myself with coffee granules. Keeping the TV on low, I manage to snatch twenty minutes here and there. The blue light soothes me with its ominous output.
Hours pass and I, having busied myself with a crossword, receive a text.
I’m outside.
Creeping to the back door, we drag the corpses through the kitchen and stack them up. I often wonder how many screams are trapped by the stitches, how many blinks are suppressed by eye caps. Soulis props up the first body; an elderly woman with a large nose. We attach them to wooden planks and tie their arms behind their backs.
Exhausted, we pour two pints of whisky and cola.
“Soulis, forgive me, but they don’t look as though they’re enjoying themselves?”
He chokes on his drink. Before he can wake up mother I cover his mouth.
“Well, they won’t, will they?”
Pondering, I notice a bottle of cake glitter on top of the microwave. The corpses shimmer beneath the overhead lights.
“That’s better.”
Soulis says he has to leave, but he will pick them back up tomorrow evening. I nap on the sofa for two more hours before making breakfast for mother. She likes her eggs boiled until the yolk greens. Her toast must be burned; charred really. When I open her door, I find her sitting up in the dark.
“Don’t do that! You almost made me drop everything.”
“Oh, do you have to shout so early in a morning,” she says, covering her ears.
I hand her the breakfast tray, tucking my hair behind my ears.
“Eat your breakfast then call for me. Don’t come down until I say so, right?”
Downstairs I arrange the ingredients for lunch, line up the presents, and check that all the corpses are secured. Though, if they aren’t, I’m not sure I can do anything. The whole house smells like pine because of a candle I lit. A home that smells like a man makes me feel untouchable—invincible perhaps. I slice open a few crackers, careful not to touch the explosive strip, and pull out the paper hats. I place them on the heads of our new friends: red for the old lady, blue for the young man, and gold for the middle-aged woman with the hourglass tattoo.
“Mother! Mother! You can come down now!”
Her footsteps shake the ceiling.
“Close your eyes, mother,” I say.
Guiding her down the stairs, I feel my heart beating and my knees falter.
“Keep them closed.”
I sit her at the table.
“And…open.”
When she does, I pop up from behind the elderly woman.
“Surprise!”
She yelps at first. Then she starts to laugh uncontrollably, slapping her knee. She wipes her tears with the back of her hand.
“Do you like it?”
“Oh, Tanzy. I don’t know what to say,” she shrieks.
“Say you like it at least.”
“They’re so realistic!”
I freeze.
“…They are! Erm, do you want a cuppa?”
What should I do? Do I tell her the truth? Do I let her exist in the lie? The crucial thing is to consider the aftermath.
“I should start on lunch.”
#
Just as the king’s speech is about to begin, mother instructs me to set the table. The turkey is browning, the vegetables are roasting, and the gravy is warming on the stove. Christmas songs play on the radio. Mother plates up our lunch, and I—stomach rumbling—give our new friends an extra coat of glitter.
“All done! Let me get this apron off,” she says, pinching my cheeks.
Over the next hour, we eat, pull crackers, and sing. It almost feels like Christmas once did.
“Do you remember how busy it used to be?”
Mother holds up a finger as she necks her wine.
“Every year, at your grandfather’s house, was just bustling. There was always someone new to meet.”
“What happened?”
Mother stands up, sighing.
“Who’s for pudding?”
Before she can pour the brandy, I take out my phone.
“Light her up!”
The flames sparkle. Through them I see the elderly woman’s face: stoic, peaceful.
“Look at that, Tanzy!”
The little sprites wane, leaving a gently smoking pudding. I never have Christmas pudding without brandy cream to drown it in. But it is much smaller now. Our guests pose like sprinkles atop buttercream sheets. Mother clears the table; sweeping the crumbs of our year into her cupped palm. Like she said when I was little, “one must get every little bit”.
Suddenly, my phone vibrates.
I’ll pick up at 5.
I shovel the rest of my pudding down my throat, scooping the cream in one fell swoop.
“Why such a hurry?”
“…Films!”
“Well, I’ll just record them. You’ll get heartburn doing that.”
Will she suspect something? Will Soulis slip up?
Over the next hour, we complete a jigsaw, watch The Snowman, and play charades. I’ve had diarrhoea twice. Mother looks over at me, then she asks,
“Are you hiding something?”
“What makes you ask that,” I say, biting my cheek.
She hates unexpected guests. She asks everyone who plans on visiting to call hours ahead.
“…A friend.”
She jumps to tidy up.
“It’s Christmas Day!”
“He’s just picking up the—”
“The what?”
“The dolls.”
I open the back door with my finger on my lips. He shakes his head.
“Mother, this is Soulis.”
She shakes his hand, sweaty and pink in the face.
“So, you’re responsible for the dolls?”
Soulis whips his head towards me. “Dolls? They’re not—”
“What he means is that they’re like his children.”
Mother boils the kettle, humming along. Soulis takes the bodies out individually. The elderly woman is the last to go. As he struggles through the door, her eye caps pop out of her skull and onto the floor, where they roll and come to a stop next to mother’s foot.
“What are these,” she asks, picking them up.
She looks to the ceiling as if recalling something.
“Dolls don’t have these, do they?”
Soulis snatches them from her hand, and I begin to usher him out the back door.
“Tanzy, what is going on here? I am not to be made a fool of.”
“I’ll see you next week then,” Soulis says, making haste.
Mother locks herself in the living room.
If only the eye caps had stayed put.
For the next hour she refuses to speak.
“Mother, I can explain if you would stop this charade!”
With no answer, I let myself in. She is laid out on the sofa; eyes wide open and left arm across her stomach. I lie with her, wrapping my arms around the buckle of her belt.
“Do you remember when we would get up at five in the morning on Christmas Eve? Just to catch the bus? Then we’d find somewhere to have tea and toast. And sometimes, it would snow. Do you remember?”
I smell the wine on her breath. I taste the regret. Half-conscious, the crooning of carol singers bleeds through the walls like a love letter. This is our now. This is our fortune.
END
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